"I may have some good news for you," Aunt Brenda said as Hermione, Cedric and Hermione's parents arrived at her surgery on Thursday evening after hours. Cedric's parents weren't with them. He'd wanted to hear any news first himself.
Chit-chatting about the unnaturally cool weather and the impending opening of the Summer Olympic Games in Atlanta, Brenda led them into a long, narrow consultation room where the four doctors in her practice had vending machines and a table, as well as a fluorescent lightbox, a projector screen, and a small reference library. It was chilly and Hermione rubbed her arms, wishing for a light sweater and wondering how much good there really was in Aunt Brenda's news. She was afraid to hope, and had kept silent during the small talk. So, she noticed, had Cedric and she exchanged a glance with him. His face was solemn, his stare hard. She'd come to realize it meant he was nervous or uncertain, not angry. She squeezed his shoulder and he gave her a small smile that wasn't genuine.
Aunt Brenda bustled around at the front of the room a moment, then plopped down a manila folder on the table in front of her and said, "Due to the nature of Cedric's somewhat liminal legal status, I've had to be careful in my consultations. I'm a pediatrician by training, not a neurologist, but I've read up on neurology as well as I can and asked questions where I needed to. That's the obligatory disclaimer." She grinned at Cedric, who just nodded back.
Clicking her remote to lower the lights and turn on the lightbox, she pulled out Cedric's X-rays from the manila folder and snapped them up. With a laser pointer, she indicated an area on the spinal column. "See how that vertebra is slightly raised? A lesion on the spinal column there has pushed it out of position. That's the point of damage at what we call the second lumbar vertebra. It's very low, which is good news for Cedric as he won't have to contend with issues created by possible paralysis of the abdominal region or higher. We noticed during the neuro exam that he has problems sitting unassisted, which suggests some damage in the first lumbar vertebra as well, governing the hip region. But the bulk of the problems are restricted to his thighs and lower extremities.
"The oddity in this case - and why I'm reluctant to turn a real neurologist lose on him - is that Cedric's condition seems to combine spinal injury with nerve disease. That is, it acts like a weird merger of the two and any neurologist who sees these results is going to be flummoxed."
"So in the end, I can't be diagnosed by Muggle means?" Cedric asked. Hermione had come to stand behind him like a bulwark, her hands on his shoulders.
"Yes and no," Aunt Brenda replied. "It appears this curse has essentially formed a . . . block on the spinal column so the nerve degeneration can't pass that damaged section, trapping it below the spinal lesion. That really doesn't make any sense for how these diseases work, but I'm just going to accept it as a 'given' and look at what's manifesting below that block.
"My first thought," she went on, "when Charles described it, was multiple sclerosis, but after examining Cedric's MRI as well as the lumbar puncture and nerve conduction velocity results, it's looking less like MS and more like a slightly rarer condition called Guillain-Barre Syndrome. They're similar enough that GBS patients are sometimes initially misdiagnosed with MS, but what ticked me off in this case was the rapid onset of the condition, those severe nerve attacks Cedric suffers, and the fact his sensation is dulled in certain respects."
"But it's not," Cedric said, confused. He'd leaned forward in his seat. "I mean my sensation isn't dulled. I still feel everything . . . or I would if not for the pain medication."
"Actually you don't feel everything. You still feel pain, yes. In fact, you appear to have slight hyperalgesia - that is, excessive skin sensitivity. Some things bother you more than normal. But we tested you with regard to a number of things, and your nerves are not properly registering other sensations - namely cold and heat. This is of concern because it means you could accidentally scald yourself, or get frostbite. Never put your feet and legs into water you haven't tested first with your hands. At this point, it's still minor, but the problem could increase with time."
Hermione blinked. She'd never even considered something like that, just assumed sensation was sensation. Apparently not.
"Now," Aunt Brenda was saying, "GBS is a disorder wherein antibodies attack the peripheral nerves - those beyond the brain and spinal column - causing inflammation. In layman's terms, the body's own system for battling diseases begins attacking itself. We don't know why, but the end result is increasing damage to the nerves as - essentially - the antibodies eat away the nerve casings and in some cases like yours, also the axon, or nerve connection itself. It causes muscle weakness and sensory disturbances - which in plain speak usually means tingling, a pins-and-needles sensation, stiffness, cramping, as well as deep muscle pain, especially in the large muscles of the thighs and lower back. Sound familiar?" She looked at Cedric, who just nodded.
"Over time, as more and more axons are damaged, the patient goes from feeling severe pain to feeling less sensation - that is, paralysis."
Cedric nodded again. This was, Hermione knew, more or less what the healers had told him at St. Mungo's, albeit in magical terms. Cedric's nerves were slowly being destroyed. "If you know what's causing it," she asked, speaking up for the first time, "it can be treated, right?"
"Maybe," Aunt Brenda allowed. "That's the good news I mentioned. I had Cedric's regeneration potion analyzed. It's a fairly sophisticated growth hormone, but only rebuilds nerves; it doesn't stop the cause. We can slow down the cause. One type of treatment, plasmapheresis is a mechanical process that removes the patient's blood a little at a time, runs it through a machine, cleans it up - gets rid of the bad antibodies - and returns it to the patient. It doesn't just rebuild nerves as they're eaten away, it stops the damage, at least for a few months. Combined with Cedric's potion, he might find himself recovering strength rather than losing it. The downside is that plasmapheresis is a day-long outpatient process, has some serious side-effects, and requires a catheter inserted under the collarbone on a permanent basis for the duration of the treatments."
"What's a catheter?" Cedric asked.
"A shunt inserted into your circulatory system - your veins and arteries - that allows us to give you medicine without poking holes in you over and over for IVs. Patients who spend a lot of time on IVs often have catheters to prevent bruising and vein collapse."
Hermione didn't miss Cedric's shudder or the paling of his skin. "You said this is just one type of treatment?" Hermione broke in.
"The other option," Aunt Brenda said, "is IVIg, or intravenous immunoglobulin therapy. It's easier to administer because it's just a short-term IV that replaces the bad antibodies with good ones from a donor. Normally, plasmaphersis is done first, then IVIg - you kill the bad antibodies then put in good ones. It lasts from one to three months Since we won't likely do PE for logistical reasons, the positive effects would be lessened, but combined with the regeneration potion he's already taking, it may still be sufficiently effective. Normally both these treatments only prevent further attacks; they can't repair what's been damaged. But in Cedric's case, his potion does repair what's been damaged."
Hermione didn't think Cedric looked much happier at the prospect of bi-monthly IVs, but he made no comment. It was obviously preferable to a catheter, and Hermione wondered if Aunt Brenda had brought up the PE option first on purpose. After the prospect of what amounted to sophisticated dialysis every few months, merely getting an IV for a few hours was a piece of cake.
"In addition to this," Brenda said, "I think we can improve on Cedric's pain medicine." Cedric sat up at that. Degeneration progressed slowly, but pain was something he faced every day. "If that regeneration potion is years ahead of us, his pain medication isn't. For GBS, we can do better. We know how to target neuropathic pain of this type in particular.
"I'll prescribe a drug cocktail of muscle relaxants, antispasmodics, arthritis medicine and antidepressants for him in differing combinations until we hit on what works best. It won't eliminate the pain" - she looked right at Cedric - "and you'll still experience 'attacks' when the malfunctioning antibodies in your blood reach a critical point. But the idea is to keep those attacks to a minimum, hence suggesting the IVIg.
"Now, the best news of all. Unlike MS, GBS patients do often recover - not all of them, and we're not sure why, but recovery is a possibility. I'll be honest, however - involvement of the core nerve tissues, or axons, puts Cedric's chances lower than most, yet it happens."
Cedric was gripping the arms of his chair. "Recovery? They said that's not possible."
"Well, not as long as they're treating only the symptoms, not the cause. Be clear - it's far from a guarantee. But if nothing else, we may be able to halt the progression by a combination of your nerve regeneration and the IVIg treatment. Even if you never get better, you might at least not get any worse."
Cedric had closed his eyes. He looked as if he were trying to keep from hoping, and Hermione gripped both his shoulders, joy bubbling up inside her. For the first time since her parents had suggested that Aunt Brenda look at Cedric, she felt faith again in her Muggle roots. Maybe they really could do what Wizarding medicine couldn't.
"How soon can we start these treatments?" Cedric asked, eyes opening again. There was a light in them that Hermione hadn't seen before, something like greed. Cedric had always seemed so mature about his loss, she hadn't realized until that very moment just how much he must want to walk again.
Aunt Brenda grinned. "Well, I've been looking into that too. Keep in mind that I'm not promising anything, and even if there are results, it may not be evident for some months . . . "
It was another half hour before they left, Cedric weighed down with pamphlets and booklets and documentation. His expression, Hermione thought, was carefully blank, damped down again after that moment in the consultation room when she'd seen hope flare in him.
Her parents were chatting about the steps required, and how they might be able to slip by the bureaucratic hurdles to get treatment for Cedric without the involvement of a neurologist. They sounded upbeat, positive. Cedric wasn't really paying attention, just staring out the car's backseat window, her hand gripped in his, but loosely. Once or twice, her parents tried to engage him in their plans, and he answered politely but didn't elaborate.
When they reached home, Hermione set a kettle on the stove and fed Crookshanks while her parents and Cedric sat down at the kitchen table. Her father said, "You don't seem as enthusiastic as back at the surgery." The comment wasn't quite accusatory, but Hermione could tell her father was miffed.
"It's not that I don't . . . that I'm not - " He cut off abruptly, then said, "This might not work. I don't want to hope."
At his last words, Hermione felt something inside her curl up as if kicked.
"There's nothing wrong with hope, lad," her father said.
"It gets in the way," Cedric replied, almost sharply. "If I spend all my time and energy - and money - chasing blibbering humdingers, I won't actually get anything useful accomplished."
"Blibbering what?" Hermione's mother asked even as her father said, "I understand that. But there are reasonable chances and unreasonable ones. This isn't some imaginary possibility. People really do recover from GBS. Three-quarters of those affected do, in fact."
"But that's just it," Cedric said, speaking carefully. "I don't have GBS. You all seem to be forgetting that. It may look like a disease to you, but it's a curse: Dark magic. That's a problem. Dark magic can't be healed like other things." Both her parents were staring at him now, wearing expressions full of doubt.
"At the surgery, I got caught up in all the talk about treatment too," he went on, "how she could treat the cause not just the symptoms . . . But see, that's exactly the problem. She won't be treating the cause because she can't. The cause is magical."
"But if this . . . curse . . . causes your body to attack itself just like GBS - "
"Being like something isn't the same as being something." Cedric shook his head, lips pinched. "It may look like the disease or syndrome, but only from the waist down. If I really had GBS it'd be affecting all of me. That's what these papers say." He waved a pamphlet. "But it doesn't affect all of me, and that's why she can't send me to a neurologist, because what's happening to me won't make any sense. Not by your science. I don't have GBS," he said, more forcefully. "I was struck by a Nervoccido Curse. They're not the same thing."
Hermione could see the train wreck approaching but wasn't at all sure how to stop it. This was exactly what her parents stumbled over most - magic couldn't be explained scientifically. It was magic, and they didn't - really - believe in magic. Magic didn't obey the natural laws they were used to and they could only wrap their minds around it by overlooking the points where it didn't compute. In the end, that wasn't satisfactory and Cedric had just called them on it, even if he didn't realize what he'd done.
Her mother's lips were pursed and her father . . . her father was angry, although when Charles Granger was angry, his face went expressionless. As did his voice: "So you don't even want to try the treatments? After all that?"
Sensing danger, Cedric frowned. "I didn't say that. I just . . . I don't want to hope too much."
Hermione's father rose from the table. "Hope is the best cure of all, Cedric. I've seen it again and again. Patients without hope don't heal." And he headed out of the room - probably to avoid a quarrel. Silence reigned at the table for a long moment. Cedric rubbed his forehead, Hermione hung halfway between the kitchen and her seat, and her mother chewed a nail.
Behind Hermione, the kettle whistle blew, breaking the tension. She hurried back to it and her mother rose to follow. While they prepared the tea cups, Hermione said, "He's been through all this before, mum - hoping, and nothing coming of it. It hurts."
"I know. Of course, I know. We know. But your father's right. Without hope - "
"He said he'd try the treatments. That's not a complete lack of hope. He's trying to be realistic."
"It sounded more cynical to me."
"Do you blame him? Really?" Hermione spun to glare at her mother. "If somebody tried to convince you that . . . acupuncture would stop tooth decay - would you believe it?"
"Hermione, don't be ridiculous. What on earth is the connection between acupuncture and tooth decay? There's a clear connection here; Brenda explained . . . "
"Aunt Brenda explained how GBS works, but Cedric's right. He doesn't have GBS. He suffered a curse that looks like GBS in how it attacks his body. But to him, there's no more connection between antibodies attacking his nerves and a debilitating curse than you see between tooth decay and acupuncture. It doesn't make sense to him. See?"
Frowning, her mother said, "We're trying to see," even as they heard the thump-scrape of Cedric's step.
He appeared in the open doorway of the kitchen. "I'm not trying to be ungrateful," he said, expression distressed.
"We know," Hermione's mother said. "We just want you to try, Cedric."
"And I will - try. I didn't say I wouldn't try this."
Hermione's mother nodded. That seemed the best compromise they could hope for.
Later that evening, Hermione, dressed in pyjamas, let herself into his guest room. True to her word, Hermione's mother had discussed things with Hermione's father, and they'd agreed it was silly for Hermione to pretend she wasn't sleeping with Cedric when she was. So since his return, she'd been sharing the guest bed with him. Her father hadn't said anything directly about it, and her mother had only asked (again) if she and Cedric were being careful.
Already in bed and removing his braces, Cedric looked up as she crawled in beside him but didn't speak. She didn't know what to say herself as she lay down. The evening had been tense and awkward, and it didn't surprise her that he didn't want to make love. "Just snuggle with me," he begged as they lay face-to-face, breathing each other. "I'm sorry," he said finally.
"For what?"
"Upsetting your dad and mum."
"Don't be silly. It's your life. And they . . . they don't really understand magic, Cedric. They try, but they don't. They want it to make scientific sense."
"I know. And I know they want to help. They don't want you stuck with a cripple - "
"Don't say that - "
"But it's true. And it's a natural thing to worry about. They're your parents. Things will always be harder for me - I know that, and so do they."
"And so do I. I don't care. I love you - "
"Shhh." He put a finger over her mouth. "Just listen a minute. It's not only their doubts about magic, Hermione. They . . . they need for this to work. They want me to get better, and not just because they're good people who don't like to see somebody in pain. They are that. But even more, they want you to have a whole man, not half of one."
"You are whole!" she snapped, angry and desperate. She couldn't bear hearing him talk about himself like that and thumped both fists on his chest. "You're more whole than most boys with two good legs! It was you the Minister of Magic practically begged to work for him!"
His smile was wry. "I thought you were skeptical of his motives?"
"I am, but that doesn't change the fact he wanted you. I can't stand it, hearing you put yourself down."
"I'm not, poppet. I'm simply stating a fact. I'm disabled, and there are a lot of things in my life that are made more difficult because of it."
"We can overcome all that!"
The wry smile had softened to something more genuine. "I never said I couldn't overcome the problems - or at least handle them - I said they're problems. Your parents are hoping this will cure me, or at least improve my condition, so the problems go away. I can't fault them for that. Sometimes I think I'm selfish for courting you. You could have virtually anybody, poppet - "
"I want you, you big idiot!" She could feel the tears hot in the corners of her eyes.
He put his finger over her mouth again. "Let me finish. Now, as I said, you could have anybody, but it'd be awfully arrogant of me to decide what you do want. I don't like to be patronized, and I won't patronize others if I can avoid it. You know what's involved in my condition, and if it's selfish of me to keep you for my own, then dammit, I'll be selfish. And if anybody wants to take you away from me, he'll face the fight of his life." He smiled. "That goes even for your dad."
She hugged him, but her mind drifted elsewhere. He had a point. Her parents were too good-hearted to wish she'd break up with him, whatever she sometimes accused her mother of. But they'd also been concerned from the beginning about the fact she'd fallen for a boy on crutches, even if they liked him. That brought her back around to him - to the hungry look in his eyes when he'd thought, even briefly, that he might be able to recover. She lived with his disability by proxy; he lived with it every minute of every day, and nobody wanted him to get better more than he did. Reaching out, she cupped his cheek. "If this treatment could help you even a little, I want that. But I want it for you. Not for me, not for my parents, or yours. I want it for you."
Turning his head, he placed a kiss in her palm. "I'll try. I just don't expect it to work. And I don't want to waste time chasing a possible cure to a disease I don't have. I don't see that as giving up. I see that as being realistic."
"I know," she said. "And if you need to tell them to quit pestering you about it, I'm on your side, all right?"
He smiled and kissed her nose. "Thanks, poppet."
Cedric's first official day on the job, an overcast and dreary Wednesday, was nerve wracking if also largely useless. There was orientation to go through, paperwork to fill out, and people who kept popping in to get a good look at him and - more to the point - his 'funny Muggle equipment.' Absolutely nothing of import was accomplished, or at least nothing that had to do with the job for which he'd been hired.
He returned home that night, exhausted, to find the house empty except for Berry, and a note on the door that unfurled to announce everybody was over at the Burrow. Harry had arrived the night before, and Molly Weasley was hosting a welcome dinner. Cedric didn't feel up to a party but couldn't skip, so he Apparated over. Hermione must have been watching for him as she had the door open before he reached it. "You look knackered," she said, accepting his kiss.
"Am knackered. How long does this have to last?" He spoke in an undertone. "Not that I don't want to see Harry, but - "
"We don't have to stay long," she whispered back. "I've been here all day, so I can fill you in on the news later. Come and sit down at the table. Mrs. Weasley will be serving soon."
He let her lead him to the Enlarged kitchen table even as Harry spotted them and called, "Ced! How are you?" pushing his way through the crowded living room. "Hermione said you're working at the Ministry now?" He slid into a chair beside Cedric, who mustered a smile for him.
"I'm all right. Tired. Haven't really done anything useful yet. How are you?"
"I'm fine, but what's it like? How's the new Minister?" Lowering his voice, he added, "The Daily Prophet alluded to some rift between him and Dumbledore. Do you know any more?"
Cedric shook his head. "I read that too. But no, I don't. Dumbledore's the one who suggested I take the job. Be ears and eyes in the Minister's office, you know?"
Harry glanced past Cedric to where Hermione occupied a seat on his other side. "Hermione said she thinks he wants to use you - Scrimgeour does."
Cedric shrugged, accepting the glass of pumpkin juice someone set down in front of him. "Thanks." He started to answer Harry but a powerful arousal washed over him - spontaneous, unlooked-for, without incentive - and he gasped. He'd only felt it in the presence of -
He turned and his jaw dropped. "Fleur?"
Hands on hips and lips making a pink moue, Fleur shook her head in disapproval. "I was starting to think you were blind, Cederic Diggory." She'd always turned his first name into three syllables. Then she bent to grab his shoulders and kiss him on both cheeks. "It is so good to see you! How are you?"
"Er, brilliant. Uh" - he leaned back - "what are you doing here?"
Bill Weasley walked up behind her, wrapping both arms around her shoulders from behind and kissing her cheek. "Cedric, meet my fiancée."
Both Cedric's eyebrows went up. "Really? Congratulations!" He held out his hand for Bill to shake. He didn't know the older man that well, but after his expulsion the year before, he and Bill had chatted a few times at The Three Broomsticks and he'd found they shared more than a few common opinions and interests.
"Thanks," Bill said, accepting the hand. "And congratulations yourself on the new job. We'll talk later, all right?"
"I look forward to it," Cedric said, then turned back to Harry and Hermione - the latter's face was thunderous. "What?" he asked her.
"Nothing," she snapped.
"She, Ginny and Mrs. Weasley don't like Fleur," Harry explained softly.
"Whyever not?" Cedric asked even as Hermione said, "I don't dislike her, Harry - "
"Yes, you do."
"I just think she's . . . well, arrogant. About being French." Then with a dark glance at Cedric, she added, "She looked happy to see you. And you to see her."
This annoyed Cedric. "Fleur's a friend. Nothing more." He took a sip of pumpkin juice.
"I heard she tried to get you to ask her to the Yule Ball."
Juice came out Cedric's nose. "That was a year and a half ago! And she didn't 'try to get' me to ask her - she asked me. I turned her down." Hermione gaped. "If I didn't say 'yes' then when I wasn't seeing anybody, what makes you think I'd be interested now, when I am? She's engaged to another man anyway."
Hermione had the good grace to blush, chin lowered. "Oh. Yes. Well, I suppose not."
"You'd like her, if you gave her a chance."
She gave him a dubious expression. "I rather doubt that."
He resisted rolling his eyes and turned back to Harry, who'd watched their exchange like a spectator at a Quidditch match. "Anyway, and on the subject of Scrimgeour - I'm sure he'll try to use me. Seems to be the modus operandi of politicians, even politicians who were former Aurors. But I've wanted to work at the Ministry for a long time. Did Hermione tell you what I'm doing for him?"
"Yeah, she did. So did Mr. Weasley." He nodded to where Ron's dad was laughing with Remus Lupin and Bill. "I think he wants to come and live in your office."
Cedric grinned. "He spent lunch there today; we were trying to figure out how to tune in Muggle radio stations. Never did have any luck."
Harry blinked behind the glasses and pushed them up his nose, glancing past Cedric to Hermione. "Well, you just, uh . . . turn the dial."
"There isn't any dial. Er - I don't think there is. Just buttons."
"It's digital," Hermione said, and Cedric turned to look. "You just turn it on, Cedric, find the buttons with up and down arrows, then keep punching them until something comes in clearly."
Cedric blinked. "Oh." Now he felt stupid.
"You should've just flooed me. I'd've explained it for you."
Hermione sounded impatient, which made Cedric feel worse, but Harry appeared to understand because he gave a lopsided grin. "I didn't know how to work a Wizarding wireless either till Ron showed me. I reckon what seems obvious depends on your previous experience. But" - Harry licked his lips - "what about Scrimgeour? Have you talked with him much? Dumbledore said he was able and more forceful than Fudge . . . but I got the impression Dumbledore was ducking the question about whether he'll be any good as Minister - just said he wouldn't underestimate Voldemort."
Toying with his juice glass, Cedric said, "Forceful is a good description. Impatient might be another. He'd have had me working the day after my interview, if he could've." Cedric frowned, thinking back to that interview. "I think he makes decisions quickly and doesn't spend a lot of time second-guessing himself. He knows how to use flattery too." He didn't look at Hermione as he said that, but felt her small hand bunch tight behind his robes. "He doesn't expect people to second-guess him, either, but he's willing to listen - at least he was to me. And he's not afraid of trying something new, which is more than I can say for Fudge." He frowned down at the empty dinner plate in front of him. "He's not inheriting an easy situation, you know? Fudge rather buggered things up."
Harry frowned, but nodded. "I reckon he's not."
Later that evening, after the meal, Bill Weasley pulled Cedric aside. "Got a minute?"
"Certainly."
"Would you be interested in sharing a flat in Diagon Alley - split rent?"
Cedric stared. "I . . . I hadn't really thought about moving out. I thought you were living here with your parents too since you got back from Cairo?"
"I am." Bill lowered his voice. "I love mum, I do, but she's old fashioned. I moved in here to save for the wedding, but she acts like Fleur and I need a bloody chaperone! And she won't even discuss letting us share a room. Fleur's got a place in London, but it's small and I was thinking, if, well, you'd be interested in the three of us splitting rent on a two bedroom? But you can't tell mum that Fleur's in on it. We'd even divide cost three ways but you'd get the second room to yourself. All we'd ask is that we get the bedroom with a private bathroom, yeah?"
Cedric blinked. "Er, uh, maybe?" He was thrown. "I'm not opposed to the idea, I just . . . I'll talk to my parents." There was the matter of Hermione's obvious jealousy of Fleur. It might be unfounded but he'd have to tread carefully. "Are there - well, what about a flat with electricity?"
"Huh?" Bill appeared as startled by that suggestion as Cedric had been by the notion of sharing a flat in the first place.
"I know it's not exactly the norm, but for my job, it'd be handy if I had a flat with electricity and a telephone." It would also provide a good reason for him to move out without explaining overmuch.
"I wouldn't even know how to go about looking for a Muggle place, Ced.."
"Let me look into that, all right?"
Bill considered a moment, then nodded. "All right. As long as we could work out the logistics."
"Fair enough."
Cedric and Hermione left not long after, although his parents were staying on for a bit. As they exited through the gate of the Weasley residence, she asked, "Did he flatter you? Scrimgeour? You said it earlier, when talking to Harry."
"Wanting confirmation that you were right about him?"
Her jaw hardened. "Don't be bitter, Cedric. I'm not trying to prove I was right. I just . . . I hoped maybe I was wrong. You took the job, so I hoped I was wrong."
Startled, he glanced down at her where her bushy head was bent, then stopped and shifted weight on his crutches. She stopped too. Outside the warded area now, he slipped an arm around her waist. "We'll talk when we get home," then he Disapparated them with practiced ease. They came out on his front step. Lamps glowed softly inside and he tested the locking charm. It seemed untouched, so he let them in.
In addition to the lamps, a fire burned in the gallery hearth. Berry had the place waiting and she popped her head in, to be sure they were her family, then disappeared again without comment. Cedric made his way over to the gallery sofa. "I don't know if it was flattery," he said, continuing the conversation. "Sometimes I think it was, sometimes I think it wasn't. Is it flattery if somebody tells you something they actually believe is true, but they tell you for their own purposes?" Plopping down on the cushions, he looked up at her.
"I'd say it's at least manipulation," she told him, hesitating before walking over to join him, curling up at his side and laying her head on his shoulder. "It bothers me that he'd say things to you just to get you to do what he wants. You're special all on your own."
Uncertain how to reply to that, he weighed words for a moment, then asked, "Would you assume he was flattering me if I wasn't disabled?"
Her head jerked up and she gaped at him in shock, but he held her eyes and didn't back down. She didn't seem to know how to reply either, and after a moment, he took pity on her and looked away. "The one thing he didn't do was make anything of my handicap, either act apologetic for it or pretend it wasn't there. I'm not sure that he didn't flatter me, or that he won't try to use me - but if so, it's got nothing to do with me being crippled. That's the one thing I left the interview all but certain of. Perhaps that's why I accepted the job. He didn't pity me."
He turned his head again, studying her face in the yellow lamplight. She looked struck. "You do."
That woke her up. "I do not!"
"Yes, you do. A little. When you say things like I'm special 'all on my own,' what's that supposed to mean? All on my own in relation to what?" In answer, he held up one of his crutches. "In relation to this? In spite of this?"
"No!"
He found her protests annoying, but also didn't feel like arguing. He was too tired, and the day had been too long. "I need to go to bed. I've got to get up early again." He pushed himself back to his feet.
"You want me to help?" she asked.
And something inside him just snapped under the freight of small things. Turning to look down at her, he snarled, "Believe it or not, I can get ready for bed all by myself. I'm not four; I don't need a mummy to brush my teeth, or defend my abilities, or fix my little problem with Muggle medicine, or make endless fucking lists, or tell me how to tune a goddamn radio like I'm some idiotic retard."
She flinched but couldn't meet his eyes. "What's wrong with you tonight?" But the question wasn't bitter or angry. It sounded small and lost, and deflated his rage. His shoulders sagged.
"I don't know," he said, honestly. "I don't know. I'm just . . . I'm tired. I'm feeling . . . I don't know what I'm feeling."
Despite the fact he'd snapped at her for things that weren't her fault, he'd also snapped at her for things she did that really bothered him - and he didn't feel up to sorting it out or apologizing. Instead, he left the gallery and headed for the bathroom, getting ready for bed, but when he reached his room, she wasn't in it. Only Esiban occupied his bed, curled into a grizzled ball, sleeping.
He clunked back out to the gallery, but she wasn't there either. "Bloody hell," he muttered, hoping she hadn't done something stupid like try to go off on her own in the middle of the night. If anything happened to her . . .
"Berry!" he called, and a moment later the house-elf appeared with a crack. "Where's Hermione?" he asked.
Berry gave him a reproachful look out of those big, pink eyes. "Miss Pretty Hermione went upstairs. Berry gets her soft sheets for the guestroom, I's does."
Cedric sighed, relieved. "Would you please go up and tell her to come back down to bed?"
Berry hesitated, then blurted, "Master Cedric not very nice. Maybe she doesn't want to come back down."
Lips thin, he just looked at the elf. "Berry, it's important. Sometimes people . . . quarrel. It doesn't mean anything permanent." He and Hermione had got into the habit of stalking off from one another to cool down, then acting as if nothing had happened. It needed to stop. "Please go and get her."
The elf disappeared and Cedric went back to his room. After a few minutes, he heard the cautious creak of feet on the stairs, then the bedroom door opened and Hermione looked inside. She carried a change of clothes that she must have got out of her suitcase. Cedric had been sitting on the bed, elbows braced on knees, head in his hands. He looked up. Her face was white.
"I'm not going to apologize," he said softly. "Not for all of it. Some of it - yeah. I was just . . . angry. But some of it . . . you do these little things. They grate."
Her eyes were large and dark, like bruises, and she stood indeterminate in the doorway. "I don't know what to say to that. I didn't . . . I didn't mean anything - "
"I know. And I've never told you. I just . . . ignored it, until I blew my top. Not very helpful. Please come in and close the door."
She did, but came no closer. "Don't look like such a scared rabbit," he said, annoyed by that too. "I'm not going to bite you. Usually you fight back."
"I was just . . . you don't . . . you sounded mean, Cedric. You're not mean. I didn't know . . . I didn't know how to respond."
And that shamed him; he looked away from her. "Sometimes I am mean. Don't idolize me. I get tired, I get frustrated, and it all adds up and I just feel . . . pissed off. I usually shove it down because - like you said - Cedric Diggory isn't ever mean. Well, he is, dammit! Sometimes I just want to be honest, and . . . and . . . not nice. I don't feel like being nice. Everybody else gets to be a bastard sometimes, but not me."
A spurt of giggles interrupted him and he raised his eyes to glare. She was laughing. "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm not laughing at you. It's just funny because, well, you are nice. You're a good person. Here you are, explaining so rationally why you want to be mean." She giggled again. "Everybody else just is. They don't explain it."
And he didn't know if he wanted to explode in a fit of temper - or laugh. She took a few steps closer, and her face had gone serious again. "It's all right to be a right royal bastard sometimes, you know. As long as you don't make a habit of it. After all, I put up with Harry and Ron."
"Don't patronize me," he said. "That's what makes me angrier than anything else. I know you do it because you mean well, but it's really frustrating, Hermione.
"I don't patronize you!" she snapped, and he could see two spots of color on her cheeks. Oddly, it made him feel better to see her get angry.
"You do. In little ways. Like tonight, telling me I should have flooed you about the radio."
"Well you should have! It would've been the simple solution - "
"- but I was too much of an idiot to have seen that?" he snapped, interrupting her.
Her mouth opened. "That's not - " But she stopped. And he watched something wake in her face, as if she'd finally heard not only what she'd said, but also - for the first time - what she'd implied. "I didn't . . . I really didn't . . . " She trailed off. "You're not an idiot. I've never thought you were an idiot." She took a sudden breath, like a startled gasp. "I'm sorry."
She looked ready to cry, and inside him, something eased, coming untangled. "Come here," he said, gesturing her closer. She came - all the way to the bed and let him get both arms around her waist. "I love you. That's why it hurts when I hear that in your voice. I may tease you about being bossy - but sometimes it gets to me. I don't need to be bossed around."
She cupped his face in her hands, looking down at him earnestly. "I was only irked because I could have helped - made it easier. I like to help. It makes me . . . it makes me feel good, when I can give people the answers."
He smiled up at her. "I know, poppet. That's a lot of what I admire about you - you like to help. And you really are brilliant. It's just . . . it's how you offer sometimes, you know? And when you try to defend me and I really don't need to be defended . . . I appreciate that you want to, but I don't need it. And when you try, it makes me feel like you think I can't take care of myself. That's patronizing. I react badly."
She nodded, hands still on his face. "I'm sorry."
"I'm sorry, too, for being mean earlier."
Her lips curled. "Move over so I can get into bed. Like you said, we've got to get up early."
So he did, and after the light was out, the raccoon rearranged between their feet, he tucked his arm around her waist and spoke into the back of her hair. "We actually finished that quarrel. Didn't walk away this time."
She was quiet a moment, then said, "We did, didn't we?" And then she snuggled back against him. They didn't make love - he just wasn't up to it - but they slept with their bodies touching.
Cedric's second and third days at the Ministry were exercises in frustration. If he'd finally managed to tune the radio, he found himself blocked out from using of the internet. The ethernet cable was working, but a box kept popping up, demanding a user name and password. A few desperate owls later, he'd determined that additional spying would prove necessary before he could utilize his jury-rigged access. Ted Tonks junior volunteered to borrow Moody's Invisibility Cloak in order to get Cedric the information he needed, but it was yet another obstacle.
Cedric still had enough data to make reports, even if all he had to tell so far was Muggle news. It wasn't what the Minister had been hoping for, he knew, but he'd only been on the job three days. Voldemort was bound to make a move eventually and as an Auror, Scrimgeour surely understood that surveillance required patience.
But Cedric had forgotten that - former Auror or not - Scrimgeour was now a minister under pressure to make headway against Voldemort. Monday afternoon, Cedric was called into the Minister's office for a 'friendly consult.'
"The most you can tell me about is some group of unruly Irish bombing Muggles in Manchester last month and a Muggle president down in the Balkans who was forced to resign last Friday?"
"Karadzic's a war criminal, sir; he's wanted for genocide and torture in Bosnia-Hercegovina. He had thousands of people murdered just last year in Srebrenica. Thousands, Minister." Viktor had been owling Cedric about the whole situation on his doorstep, and had been using his status as an international Quidditch star to raise public awareness. "The war in the Balkans affects us too. Viktor Krum tells me witches and wizards have lost homes, businesses, and some have been killed in bombings alongside Muggles." Nervous, Cedric licked his lips. "I know it's a long way from us, but look at these." He handed over a stack of printouts with Muggle photographs, plus a couple wizarding photos Viktor had sent. One showed a wizarding family standing in front of what was left of their home in Sarajevo. Scrimgeour was frowning, clearly disturbed.
"I have heard about this 'ethnic cleansing,'" he said, "one could hardly not." But something in the way he said it made Cedric think this was the first time he'd really been faced by the reality. "I'm not sure what it's got to do with You Know Who, however."
"Nothing, but I thought you should be kept informed, sir" - all part of Cedric's ulterior goal to prove the impact of Muggle politics on wizards. "As for Manchester, the blast injured or killed over 200 people. It was attributed to the IRA, but it could have had Death-Eater involvement." He was reaching, but Scrimgeour didn't sound understanding. "There are peace talks going on in Northern Ireland that this attack could have sabotaged. Perhaps they were manipulated into it, to keep the Muggles stirred up?"
"Possibly - and closer to home than the Balkans. What's the IRA?"
Cedric had been prepared for that question as he hadn't known himself beyond hearing the name once or twice. "The Irish Republican Army, although it's a bit more complicated - there's more than one group of them, you see." He leaned forward in his chair, wand out to rifle through the papers in the Minister's report to find a printout he'd prepared with a summary of who they were, what they wanted, and the violence they'd engaged in to get it. "A terrorist group," he added, "not unlike the Death Eaters, albeit with different goals. Muggles deal with a number of terrorist organizations, both political and religious. It might . . . " he hesitated, then blurted, "it might be useful to study the methods of those groups and how Muggles handle them."
"Already covered, Diggory," the Minister said. "There's a unit in Auror training on terrorism."
"Oh." Perhaps they weren't as uninformed as Cedric had feared. Cedric hesitated again, then said, "I have a friend from Manchester; he was my roommate at Hogwarts. He might be able to look into the explosion, in case there was more to it than - "
"Scott Summers, I know. He's been admitted to Auror academy - got his acceptance last week. I'll see to it that he's sent up there with a full member of the corps, just in case." The Minister tossed the papers back on his desk. "Well, let's hope for better next week. We need clues about where the Death Eaters are holed up or might strike next, try to head them off at the pass, even arrest a few. Get me clues, Diggory, not the Muggle society page."
Cedric knew better than to protest. He was running with the big dogs; he had to produce or be eaten. "Yes, sir."
On his way out of Scrimgeour's office, he came face to face with none other than Dolores Umbridge headed in, clipboard in hand. For a suspended moment, they just looked at each other. Red hate and physical illness churned in Cedric's belly, making his limbs weak. Fear was there too, and that shamed him, but he remembered how she'd looked at him. Most of all, however, he felt simple astonishment. "What are you doing here?" he blurted.
One eyebrow lifted as she looked up at him. "I work here, Mr. Diggory - or did you forget that? I heard that you do, too - in a rather unorthodox job."
"You work here?" he asked, voice rising. "How can you possibly still work here? Why weren't you sacked along with your master after everything you did?"
"Diggory!" It was the voice of Scrimgeour. Cedric spun. "Is there a problem?"
Cedric should have kept his mouth shut. He should have waited to talk to the Minister privately. Instead, he exploded - "Why is she still working here? After what she did? She lied about me, sir. She harassed me all year. She - "
"That's enough, Diggory." Scrimgeour didn't raise his voice but it cut straight across Cedric's rant. "I don't fire staff due to personal vendettas."
"It's not just me! It's - "
"I said that's enough. Go back to your office and pry your foot out of your mouth. Then find me reports that might give me clues about what You Know Who is up to."
Jaw still open, Cedric wanted to protest. He wanted to badly. But he turned and left as ordered, hobbling on his crutches, humiliated and furious. Behind him, he could hear the Minister saying, "My apologies, Dolores; he's young. Please come in."
Back in his office, Cedric stopped only long enough to pick up his briefcase and laptop, then left again. It wasn't quite five o'clock but close enough, and he'd get nothing else done before the workday ended. He wanted to break something, not read the papers or watch the telly. On the way out, he ran into Arthur Weasley and was unable to resist snapping, "Why didn't anybody tell me that bitch is still working here?"
Mr. Weasley blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
Pausing, Cedric took a deep breath and let it out, struggling for calm. "Umbridge," he said. "She's still here. I just ran into her in the Minister's office. What is she doing here? When I asked the Minister - and all right, I admit I was . . . upset - he said he didn't fire staff for personal vendettas. But she was Fudge's right-hand woman! How can Scrimgeour stand to have her around - and how can she stand to work for him?"
Glancing nervously about, Mr. Weasley said, "Let's drop by Diagon Alley on the way home, get ourselves a cup of tea. I'll send Molly a message. Have you seen my sons' new shop? Weasley Wizard Wheezes?"
Confused and blinking, Cedric just shook his head. He stood here simmering at a boil only to have Arthur Weasley suggest they visit the twins' joke shop? But he followed the older man out of the Ministry by the visitor entrance, which he still had to use. They then Apparated over to Diagon Alley, where Mr. Weasley ordered them tea in a shop and they sat out on the pavement. The street was nearly deserted, shoppers looking nervous and hurried, store windows bearing posters with the images of wanted Death Eaters. A few stores were even boarded up.
They'd barely got seated before one of the twins joined them; Cedric still had a difficult time telling them apart, but thought this might be George - a fact his father confirmed when he stood to give the boy a hug. "George! You got my message; have a seat, have a seat. Cedric and I just ordered a pot; I'll have the waiter bring an extra cup."
George seated himself in a third chair, saying, "Actually, we're a bit swamped at the moment. Fred's holding down the fort so I could drop by." He plopped a bag on the table by his father. "I think that ought to do the trick."
Mr. Weasley grinned at his son, "Thanks," and started to pull a few sickles from his pocket but George shook his head.
"Not for this. Talk to you later." Rising, he shot a glance at Cedric, adding, "Good luck with the old lion, Diggory." Then he trotted back across the street.
"We can talk without worry now," Mr. Weasley said.
"Aren't there spells for that?"
"Indeed, but Fred and George have developed a special line of serious products for dark arts defense. Shielding spells, decoys, and what's in the bag - a Randomizer. The trouble with Muffling spells is that they may obscure what you're saying, but it's fairly clear you're saying something you don't want to have overheard. The Randomizer comes with a pre-programmed conversation on generic topics that adapts to the voices of the speakers. Anybody listening in will hear us talking about" - he glanced into the bag - "Quidditch. Nothing suspect."
Sobering a little, Mr. Weasley leaned over. "I'm quite certain Umbridge has sent someone to see where we went, and while we could have gone back to the Burrow, I want them to think I took you out for tea to calm you down - not give you advice."
Cedric had to struggle not to look completely astonished. Was this the bumbling man overfond of Muggle trivia stuck in a dead-end job? Perhaps he'd seriously underestimated Mr. Weasley.
The waiter arrived with their tea and Mr. Weasley poured. "Now," he said, stirring sugar and a little milk into his own cup, "take care with Umbridge, Cedric. She has too many friends in too many places at the Ministry. I didn't run into you by accident. Word is already out that you confronted her in Scrimgeour's office and he had to intervene."
Cedric felt his cheeks and ears flush. "Well, that gossip titbit must have taken all of . . . fifteen minutes to spread."
"That's about all it does take with her. She's roundly hated, but also deeply feared. People may sympathize with you, but nobody will stand up to her if she attacks you directly. Be glad that Scrimgeour dismissed your outburst as youth, and hope she lets it slide."
Cedric had fixed his own tea while listening to Mr. Weasley, his stomach churning. "I don't understand how she's still working there! Why wasn't she let go when Fudge was sacked?"
"On what grounds? That she was a member of his staff? That's not enough to sack somebody. And if we know she did a fair number of illegal things at Hogwarts, there's no solid proof. It's a matter of word against word, and cases of that sort are difficult to win, especially if the characters of the witnesses have been called into question. In this case, I'm afraid they have been."
No solid proof. Cedric suddenly understood the very real loss - far beyond just the artistic - that burning his mother's painting had meant. Ramifications. There were always ramifications to one's choices, and he hadn't really considered them when he'd gone to London after Harry, just resented being penned in. Even after, he'd been thinking only about the miscarriage. He'd made it all about him. Now - finally - he realized the full scope of what they'd given up to be certain he was safe . . . and he was ashamed.
Mr. Weasley continued, "We'd hoped she might resign when Fudge left, but she didn't. Scrimgeour had no grounds to fire her, but if you'll notice, she's no longer senior undersecretary. If Rufus couldn't get rid of her, he could effectively demote her by bringing in previous staff from his old department."
Mr. Weasley sipped his tea and let Cedric think about that. "How do we get rid of her?" Cedric asked finally. "I want" - he shivered all over from rage - "I want to see her in Azkaban."
"You and a lot of others at the Ministry. But if you thought matters at school were sometimes unfair, you're about to see just how unfair the real world is." He paused a moment, then went on. "I understand why Dumbledore wanted you in Scrimgeour's office, but I wish it hadn't been necessary. You've been thrown straight into the lion's den, Cedric."
"My mum said something along those lines."
"She's dead right. Play your cards close to your chest, avoid attracting too much attention, and learn who you can cross and who you can't. You're young, but you're famous. Scrimgeour is inclined to give you a little leash to run if it keeps you happy, but you're still on a leash and he'll rein you in at some point to do his bidding. Do it unless it's completely against your ethics. But don't confuse ethics with pride." Mr. Weasley's lips twisted. "The most difficult job for some of us is recognizing our place at the Ministry and how we can use it. I'm dismissed, overlooked, but there's value in that - as long as I don't let my pride get in the way. You see?"
Cedric did see. And his private opinion of Arthur Weasley rose several more notches. This was a man strong enough to be a 'nobody' in the eyes of many in order to serve a greater good. "Thank you," he told the other man. He meant it for more than just the advice about Umbridge.
Notes: I've made a slight adjustment to the timeline during the 1996 summer. Here, Harry arrives at the Burrow three and a half weeks into the summer, not two. None of these changes interfere with anything in the book but work better for my purposes.